


Dear R

by isab1400



Series: Peeks of a love ended too soon [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-03 23:31:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13351797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isab1400/pseuds/isab1400
Summary: Enjolras writes letters in his diary.





	Dear R

Enjolras sighed as he closed the door behind him. Sighed again as he slung his bag on the chair and hung his jacket on the hook, sighed as he sat at his desk and pulled out the by now well-worn notebook. He brushed a hand over the cover of it, clearing the dust from a polaroid of him and Grantaire in one of their heated ‘discussions’. Jehan had given it to him at the funeral, and it was now spotted from where a couple of teardrops had fallen on it. A little poem was written on the back, in Grantaire's handwriting. Jehan had known, of course he had, bless his heart, as caught up in his own world as he could be, of course he would know. He had cried so much that night, just as much, he thought, as when they first told him. A sombre mood had hung in the air when he entered the Musain that evening. Somehow he knew, before Combeferre had grabbed his shoulder and pushed him into a seat he had known. He kept his face carefully neutral, a mask of ignorance although he was sure they knew he knew. When Combeferre said his name, he trembled and hid his face in Jehan’s shoulder. Now, another teardrop fell to join the others on the cover of his notebook, and he carefully blotted it away with his sleeve, and with a melancholy smile he turned the pages to the last entry, and held his pen to the paper.

“Dear R,” he wrote in his elegant handwriting. Many of the earlier entries were written in shaky letters from shaky hands, attached to a body shaking with the effort of holding back sobs. It had been a while now and he didn’t cry as often. Perhaps he had run out of tears. The lord knows he had cried enough to fill all the rivers in China. It still took him a moment, and a steeling breath to move his pen to the next line without blurring the fresh ink with his tears. Although perhaps, today of all days, he would allow himself to wallow in his grief a bit.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it. 6 months since you last came to a meeting. 6 months…” A drop fell to the paper, diffusing the still wet ink. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and took a shaky breath as he looked for some paper to dry off the page with.

“6 months since you left. Quite rude of you, really. A ‘goodbye’ would have been nice. A heads up. Although I doubt anything could have made it easier. I was never good at goodbyes you know. Of course you know. Anyway…” He put down his pen and wiped his eyes again. He got up to get some coffee, to take a break and breathe. He considered a cigarette, a habit he had taken up lately. The smell reminded him of Grantaire, and he found he quite liked it. He decided against it though, he could already hear Grantaire in his head, telling him off for picking up such bad habits, the hypocrite. As he sat back down he took another deep breath, and a sip of his coffee. He didn’t even like it this way, black, despite what many may have expected, but again, it was a matter of familiarity, and he was still desperately holding on to anything familiar.

“Chetta came to the meeting today. She’s been showing up more and more often lately. I suspect she needs something to take her mind off everything. Ferre and Courf are still leading the meetings. I know what you would say, but I just can’t. Not yet.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and took several deep breaths. He looked up at the wall and waited. “I find it hard to speak at all still. Every time I try, it’s like my throat seizes up and it is so painful. Sometimes I think it would be a miracle if I ever manage a whisper again. It has taken a serious toll on my grades you know, and I am blaming you entirely.”

He managed a small smile at that. He never used to joke, but he knew Grantaire would appreciate it. “Feuilly keeps telling me I need to see a psychologist, and Joly has a new theory for each meeting about what illness I’m suffering, but I know. A broken heart is not mended by others. And given the circumstances, I do think I’m coping quite well. I don’t eat take-out as often, I’m actually cooking now, eating healthy. I’m attending classes again, and meetings. I go for walks sometimes. Not bad, if I do say so myself. Grief is a process, as they say, and I’m processing.”

He looked at the page and blinked. He rubbed his sore eyes, stood up, and stretched. He looked around the apartment. Fixed his eyes on a spot on the wall. Walked over to the window for some fresh air, and then back to the desk. After another moment of looking at the things on his desk, he sat down and picked up his pen. He took another shaky breath and sniffled, wiped his eyes and his nose.

“Today was hard. I don’t know if I can do this anymore. Not without you.”

He signed off at the bottom of the page with a ‘goodbye’, something he always made sure to do now. He left the notebook open for a moment, allowing all the ink to dry before closing it. He sat and stared again, and then reached for the polaroid, pulling it out from where it’s corners were tucked into slits on the cover of the notebook. He held it under the light of his desk lamp, and looked at the photo. He sighed and closed his eyes, and saw the scene before him. He couldn’t recall this particular moment, but they had had enough arguments for him to imagine how it could have gone, each night a little bit different. Tonight they were arguing about the latest developments in spanish politics. He folded his arms and rested his head on them, holding the polaroid in his view. He turned it around to read the poem on the back, which he, by now, had memorized perfectly.

_If tomorrow my life were finished,_

_With many fun things left to do,_

_It wouldn't matter at all,_

_Because, my love, I had you._

**Author's Note:**

> Poem by Joanna Fuchs


End file.
